Co-operation
by imPERFECTology
Summary: The Ministry has struck with another incompetent decree, and this time it's up to Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy to unite the Houses, thwart the bureacracy, and uphold the precious freedom they fought a war for.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter.**

Here are the rules. I'll write, and you'll read and review.

If you're going to continue on past this point, please abide by the exchange.

I will post at least one chapter a day. The chapters may be long, they may be short, and they will usually only be one scene. If I'm away from the internet, I'll post chapters for however many days I'm away so you have something to read.

Thank you for giving this story a chance.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Beep… beep… beep…

The sound of motor cars rumbling quietly. They whoosh past, intense one moment and long gone the next.

Beep… beep… beep…

Light in the darkness of closed eyelids. Annoying, piercing, painful light.

Beep… beep… beep…

Cool breeze on sweaty legs, an uncomfortable heat pressing against her sweaty back and neck.

Beep… beep… beep…

Pound, pounding of her head, causing her to roll over and squeeze her eyes tighter.

Arm, heavy and refusing to cooperate, lifts slowly upwards in a miraculous, gravity defying show of strength. It slams down hard on a hard plastic button.

Beep… be–

Roll over again, blinks once, twice. Fingers rub rub rub until she blinks again and suddenly her head feels clear, there's no more wool clouding her muzzy brain, and she can breathe.

Excitement courses through her nerves, with dread nipping quickly at its heels.

It's today. The letter on her nightstand says that it's today.

She gets up slowly and swings her legs over her bed. Toes search for fluffy slippers and slip into them leisurely. A yawn builds up, and she releases it with a stretch of her arms. Fingers dart to her eyes to rub them again.

Her hand gropes for the letter. They pull on the knob of the drawer and reaches into its depths, quickly finding the sheet of parchment that will remind her, once again, the importance of today.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to serve as Head Girl for Hogwarts. Your school record shows that you have exhibited quick thinking in stressful situations, the ability to lead others, and the bravery, intelligence, cunning, and loyalty needed to unite the Houses._

_In light of the recent upheaval, we ask that you arrive at Hogwarts two weeks before the start of term, on August 19 at 10 o'clock. Please Floo directly into the Headmistress' office. _

_We are certain that you will continue to be a model for your peers and will take your new responsibilities seriously. Enclosed please find your Head Girl Badge, which should be worn on your school robes at all times. Congratulations!_

_Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagal_

_Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

She picks up the gleaming badge next to the letter and stares at it. '_HG_' in gold flowing script stares back. Her fingers brush over it gently, and her lips curve up into a smile.

* * *

**Remember the exchange? Reviews help me give you better things to read.**

**I drew inspiration for the Head Girl letter from Ron Weasley's 5th year Prefect letter. Most of it is word for word, but I changed some and added some as well.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter**

Thank you to all those who have read this fic. This one's for you.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

The trunk is packed and standing tall next to the tall, immaculate fireplace. It's a Muggle one, replete with fake wood and flickering electric flames. She thanks the Weasleys for persuading her parents to connect their home to the Floo Network yet again, and flicks the switch to turn off the flames.

"Well, I guess this is it," she says out loud. The sound echoes back in the silence. Her eyes rove around the living room, past the cluster of soft leather couches to the giant colourful rug under a low table groaning under the weight of books, past a giant black television, until they stop at the row of pictures lining the marble mantelpiece above the fireplace. A sharp intake of breath, and the stinging of tears, reminds her of her loss.

The last time they were here, she watched the pictures fade from a happy family of three to a loving couple of two. Now that she has reversed the _Obliviate_, the pictures have reverted back to their original state. Unfortunately, her family has not been repaired as easily.

"Mum. Dad."

It hurts. She feels so cold, so empty, now that she doesn't have two pillars of unwavering strength holding her hand, letting her rest, letting her heal and sleep and laugh and cry...

Control. She seeks control.

"I'm off to Hogwarts again. I'm Head Girl this year, so I have to leave two weeks early, before September 1st. I'm Flooing there instead of taking the Express. Lucky, aren't I, to be the first student to Floo straight to Hogwarts in thirty five years?

"Well I… I'm going now."

She stops to place one hand on her trunk, her chest aching. She felt like a pincushion and some careless, cruel person had just thrust a thousand pins into her. There's a hot wetness on her cheeks, and something salty on the tip of her tongue.

They smile at her, happy and carefree, and she wonders whether pictures will ever be added to the teeming mantelpiece again.

There's something left she has to say. So she straightens up again, and takes a deep breath.

"I'll see you again next year. Please take care. I love you. I miss you. I…"

She trails off, back straight, eyes glued to smiling faces. There's a quiet splat as a tear finally succumbs to gravity and plummets onto her shoes. A hand reaches blindly for her wand and she waves it over her trunk to shrink it to the size of a matchbox. Her wand performs a complicated pattern again and she dictates the matchbox to float gracefully onto the palm of her hand.

They stare at her. The faces are speckled with tiny white dots. She hasn't dusted in a while. A hand lifts hesitantly, hovering in the air, thumb extended, but then it quickly plummets back to her side.

The grandfather clock in the narrow hallway outside starts to chime. At the third chime, she wakens from her reverie. She thrusts her hand into the Floo powder jar, clambers awkwardly into the fireplace, and takes a deep breath.

"McGonagal's Office!"

* * *

**Reviews help. **

**It's awkward writing in present tense, but I think I'm getting the hang of it.**

**Thoughts on my new cover pic? **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter**

I don't intend for this story to get very angsty, but there will be dark moments, especially in the beginning, before Hermione (and Draco) find the light at the end of the tunnel (excuse my use of cliche).

Draco appears in this one, so without further ado...

* * *

**Chapter Three**

She has never mastered travelling by the Floo. Even Ron, who's been Flooing all his life, still has trouble with a graceful exit, and Harry is even more hopeless than she is. So it's no surprise that she stumbles onto her knees after she is spat out of roaring green flames. Thankfully, there's a fluffy carpet that ensures her knees don't bruise too terribly.

"Granger."

Masculine, low, smooth, cultured, clipped tones. Her name isn't spat out like an insult, nor is it caressed like a delectable treat.

"Malfoy." She says it after a moment, after the shock abates and she can return his professional indifference.

She has heard this voice too often not to recognize it from a mile away. But it's different. It's no longer harsh, or tired, or furious, or scathing. It's simply… neutral.

Her knees remind her that she is still on the ground, and the heat of her cheeks reminds her that this is a very awkward position to be in. So she gets up, brushes off her robes, and takes the seat next to Malfoy's. A quick, hopefully inconspicuous glance to her left catches the gleaming of a badge on his pristine black robes. Any chance of Malfoy waiting in this room for some other, different reason is deflated.

She jerks her head back immediately, and looks anywhere but him.

The silence is oppressive. Her skin feels uncomfortable; there's an itch developing on her forearm, and all she wants to do is scratch it, but she's scared of breathing and won't dare to move.

Sitting here, with him only scant feet away, is a situation she can't handle. Her brain is screaming, "Abort! Mayday! Abandon ship!" but her limbs won't move.

Malfoy seems to bear it like he does everything else, with elegance.

Well, that's not exactly true, is it, goes the nasty voice in her head. Remember sixth year, when he was scared of his own shadow?

And that pale terrified face as you screamed and screamed and how those pools of grey seemed to shout louder than you did, but that's not possible, is it, because you were the one being Crucioed and all he did was stand and watch his raving lunatic of an aunt point that vile wand at you again and again

She stiffens, and concentrates on the whirling devices on Dumbledore's desk. Except it's not Dumbledore's desk. Its McGonagal's now. And this isn't Dumbledore's office. Its McGonagal's as well.

All because of that little ferret next to you, the pathetic coward, spits the nasty voice in her head.

She shifts in her seat, the uncomfortable hard wood underneath her jeans and black robes making her feel ill at ease. It wasn't just the chair. It was this entire ridiculous situation. Dumbledore's dead, McGonagal's late, and Malfoy's Head Boy. A bubble of derisive laughter gets stuck in her throat, but she forces herself not to give Malfoy further reason to glare scornfully at her.

The robes are long. And sag on her thin frame (even though she has eaten over the summer, somewhat, when she remembers to buy groceries). And it's bloody hot because it's the middle of August so why are witches and wizards required to wear these antiquated clothes, these robes that fell out of Muggle fashion centuries ago?

Another sidelong glance, and she finds Malfoy's indifference a personal insult to her.

How can he not care?

How dare he, when the reason she no longer says, "Dumbledore's Office!" as she drops the Floo powder is because of him, that stinking bloody prat. How dare he sit there with his fancy robes that probably cost a month of her parents' salaries (her parents, a voice mourns, but she squishes it viciously), those robes that cover a gleaming black inky skull on fair alabaster skin.

There's Dumbledore's portrait. There he is, with his twinkling blue eyes and that long white beard and oh how she misses her mentor, that great man who was worth a hundred Malfoys, a thousand Malfoys, and he

She studies Malfoy and the way his face is tilted straight at McGonagal's empty seat, how his eyes never stray from the high backed wooden chair. And another pair of eyes is trained straight at Malfoy, she realizes, blue eyes that twinkle like the stars at night are looking – her eyes dart back to Dumbledore's portrait, and she wonders whether they have spoken before she arrived. But she thinks they have not, because Dumbledore is wise and knows that Malfoy isn't ready.

Coward, the nasty voice spits out. Coward, for avoiding the stare of your victim. Coward.

But was Dumbledore really Malfoy's victim? Harry explained, before, that Malfoy had been the true owner of the Elder Wand because he had conquered Dumbledore. But she suspects that Dumbledore had allowed himself to be conquered, because why else would a sixteen year old snivelling child end up the owner of the world's most dangerous wand?

Enough. No more. We're not thinking about the past this year, remember? Her brain whirrs and spins in protest, but with age and fear and maturity she has finally gained the ability to turn off her brain for a few moments of blessed peace…

She joins Malfoy in looking at the high backed wooden chair.

* * *

**Thoughts on this first interaction?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter.**

Sorry I haven't updated in a while! I was kayaking all last week - no showers for most of those days, and dreadful outhouses. To compensate, here's a massive chapter (by my standards).

* * *

**Chapter Four**

The clock reads five after. Her brain has refused to be silenced, and is now back in business, twirling away and wondering where is McGonagal?

It's not like McGonagal to be late. It is very uncharacteristic. She can't remember the last time McGonagal wasn't at the front of the classroom.

Perhaps she should say something? But what could Malfoy possibly know?

He'll only call you a stupid Mudblood, says that nasty voice. Shut up if you know what's best.

All her books are in her trunk. She can't speak to Malfoy. The portraits are all completely silent. She's not confident enough to leave her seat and go wander the castle.

So she stays stuck on that uncomfortable high backed wooden chair, staring at a high backed wooden chair, and drowning in the silence.

* * *

It's ten minutes past when McGonagal finally bursts into the door. Hermione is shocked. It's not like McGonagal at all to burst into a room.

"Good morning Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy. My apologies for my tardiness, there was some business with the reconstruction I needed to attend to."

She sweeps into the room like a breath of fresh air and Hermione takes a deep whiff of it, her mind finally coming alive.

"Good morning, Professor," she says brightly.

Malfoy nods his head.

McGonagal situates herself on the chair that she and Malfoy had been boring holes into just moments before, and leans forward to regard them both with a smile.

"Congratulations on being selected as Heads. The two of you showed a lot of promise when you first stepped foot into this castle, and I knew you would go far. And thank you for agreeing to start your duties two weeks early."

She rummages through some papers on her desk, eyes darting keenly behind glasses until they finally catch their prey.

"There are two reasons I need you here. The first is that reconstruction simply isn't moving along fast enough. The Ministry," and here she narrows her sharp gaze and faintly scowls, her tone tinged with disapproval, "has sent aid, but there is still much to be done. The two of you will be helping whichever Professor needs help the most. Make yourselves useful.

"The second reason is that I need my Heads to get along."

Hermione, whose body has drifted further and further forward in her excitement at McGonagal's speech, quickly looks at Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. He's still reclined back on the chair like a king on his throne, his body language screaming indifference.

She turns back to McGonagal and feels a frisson of… nerves?... at McGonagal's hard, unflinching gaze. It is then that she realizes McGonagal has aged.

McGonagal looks old. And tired. There are wrinkles and dark spots and shadows under bright eyes and it is noticeable, the effect war has had on her.

She wonders if she looks like that too. Not out of vanity, but out of… contemplation. Perhaps everyone, all the survivors of the war, has been changed thus, like a badge of honour and shame they all have to wear on their skin.

Thoughts drift to another badge worn on a skin but McGonagal is speaking again and she snaps back to attention.

"This year will be hard. For everyone. Children who have lost loved ones will be wandering the hallways in two weeks. There will be fear, anger, sadness… We have just fought a war. What we need is a bit of healing.

"We also need unity. Hogwarts collapsed once because its four houses could not work together. I will not allow it to happen again.

"In the coming year, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy, you will present a united front on all issues. There will be no squabbling, no name calling, no hexing, no insults, no prejudice, and no bias from the both of you. Am I clear?"

It takes a while for Hermione to respond.

"Yes, Professor," she says in the most confident voice she can muster. "I'll definitely try my best."

"Thank you, Miss Granger. And you, Mr. Malfoy?"

She turns to look expectantly at Malfoy, knowing he's going to lie through his teeth to keep his Head Boy position. Ha! No prejudice from him? No bias, no name-calling, no petty insults… Not a year has gone by without Malfoy's antagonism. It's become almost a ritual of its own.

"Crystal clear, Professor," says Malfoy. There's still a drawl to his voice, still a sense of entitlement and arrogance.

Words are trying to crawl out of her throat, but she stuffs them back down. After all, she's just promised McGonagal no name-calling, and it wouldn't look good to break her word in front of the Headmistress.

"Very well then," McGonagal says. She leans back in her chair. "I expect the best behaviour from both of you. No exceptions. At the first hint of discord, I will personally confiscate your badges and appoint new representatives for the school."

"I won't let you down, Professor," Hermione replies earnestly. She internally flinches at McGonagal's threat, and vows to do her best to appear best friends with Malfoy. The last time a Head Girl was stripped of her badge was a hundred and nineteen years ago. She refuses to be the first Head girl in a hundred and nineteen years to suffer this indignity.

Malfoy doesn't say anything.

"The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is expecting you on the seventh floor. The elves are busy right now, so I ask that you drop off your luggage before meeting him. The password is Co-operation." McGonagal turns back to her papers, indicating that they're dismissed.

Hermione immediately leaps up from her chair and makes a beeline for the door.

"Oh and Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy."

Her hand is inches away from the door, but she resists and turns back. Malfoy, a few steps behind her, does the same.

"Ten o'clock next Monday, my office. I'll be expecting a progress report."

* * *

Her footsteps echo in the silent hallway. Hard, black soles tap tap against cold, unflinching stone. She doesn't mind having to carry her trunk back to her quarters, not when it's the size of a matchbox and just as light.

Thoughts drift to the presence behind her again. It's startling, because Malfoy walks without a single sound and yet she knows exactly where he is. She knows that there is a tall figure sweeping along aristocratically three steps behind and slightly to her left. It's chalked down to reflexes honed out of frantic scuttling through forests and heart pounding Ministry break-ins.

There's an enemy behind you, screams her mind. The badump-badump-badump of her heart gives a tempo to the pant of her breaths and the fear trickling through her veins. Her legs want to walk faster. Her legs want to run. If it wasn't for her damned acrophobia, her legs would want to fly.

Breathe. Stay calm. Relax. You're in Hogwarts. Nothing can touch you in Hogwarts.

But the sanctity of Hogwarts was breached end of Sixth Year, when the Death Eaters came in and started a vicious madness that tore apart her school and left it a looming hulk of the splendid bastion of light it once was. She's heard Ginny's screams, her muffled pleas and cries in the dead of night when she thinks no one can here. And she's heard Harry's soothing voice lulling his love awake and back to dreams of a better future.

They take it in turns. Sometimes, it's Harry's shouts and snarled whimpers that creep through her door.

A red hot envy settled into her chest then, an uncomfortable hardness that refused to dissipate. Why? Why them, and not her? Why, when they can draw solace in each other, does she have to suffer alone?

That's when tickets were booked for Australia and hasty packing was done in the dead of night. She found out then that a year of living on the run has left its effects on her. The beaded bag she carried with her everywhere was stuffed with everything she needed in seconds. So she left, like a convict, like an exile, like a coward.

As she traverses the lonely hallways of Hogwarts, she thinks about them, those friends that she left behind. She wonders how they are. She wonders what they think of her now, wonders how they will react when they see her.

In two weeks' time, she will find out. Her heart goes badump-badump-badump.

"Granger."

She freezes and stops.

How did she forget about him? She was so conscious of his presence, and then he slowly drifted, faded into the background as she became immersed in her own thoughts and now he's speaking to me and what do I say?

So she takes a deep breath and summons all of her Gryffindor bravery and turns on her heel.

He's a few paces away. Apparently, her sudden stop didn't faze him, because he's lounging against the wall looking at her.

Not glaring. Just looking.

It's unnerving.

"Malfoy," she says. Does it sound calm enough? Assured enough?

What does he want?

"Can we work together? Because if we can't, I'll turn in my badge to McGonagal right now."

Shock. "Can we... is this a truce you're offering me?"

"Are you accepting?"

"But… why?"

He kicks off from the wall and straightens to his full height. "Look, I'd rather not be the first Head Boy in sixty seven years to have their badge forcibly removed. It's much better if I resign first."

"I'm not giving up my badge. And I don't think you want to give up yours either. So I'll agree to your truce, if you'll elaborate on what it entails."

"No insults," he said immediately. "No petty name calling, or jinxing, or hexing, or punches to the face," and at that he gives her a look that makes her feel half proud half embarrassed, before his voice gets lower and softer and his face seemed like a statue worn by centuries of rain, "And no prejudice. No mudblood. No… no Death Eater."

There's a burning on her arm, the place where her scar tingles. Ron told her to wear it like a badge of honour. She nearly burst into tears at that suggestion, because all she wanted was for it to dissipate, vanish, to leave so that she wouldn't be reminded of that awful, awful night every time it was summer and she wanted to wear a pretty blouse.

Death Eaters carry their mark like a badge of honour. She isn't a Death Eater. Malfoy is.

"Do you accept?"

She's drawn back by his deep baritone.

"I accept."

Hesitantly, she offers him her left hand. He's confused, eyes examining her hand cautiously, before he raises his left hand as well and wraps it around hers. It's a warm hand, dry, calloused, and big, and she feels the magnitude of this event. It's a moment. She's having a moment with Draco Malfoy.

He offered the truce first, so she decides to offer her own olive branch, to show she's sincere about this thing working.

"Thank you. For being the first to say what was on our minds."

He nods, releases her hand, and strides down the corridor. She wonders what to do now, as she hurries after his long, elegant gait, and whether she should make friendly conversation, but she doesn't want to overstep boundaries. Truce doesn't necessarily equate friends, after all, and she honestly didn't know whether she wanted to be friends with Draco Malfoy or not.

"The Defense professor is waiting. I wonder who McGonagal got again this year."

There he goes again, breaking yet another long silence.

"I hope it's not from the Ministry again. Umbridge was bad enough." Then she winces and recalls that Malfoy kissed Umbridge's ass all through fifth year, what with being a member of the Inquisitorial Squad and all.

He snorts. "Bloody bint with her pink frills and cats. She was a sadistic hag."

"An evil toad," adds Hermione.

"Bet she had it on with Filch. He's the only one who'd ever touch her," Malfoy muses vindictively.

"Oh, that's disturbing! And we're about to have lunch. Thank you, Malfoy."

"Pleasure, Granger. But didn't you hear that one? It was all over school end of fifth year. They're a match made in hell. Both cowardly, snivelling sadists on power trips."

And you were a cowardly, snivelling sadist on a power trip as well at the end of fifth year, she thinks. But she doesn't say it out loud. Instead, she continues by commenting, "She's in Mungo's now, in the insanity ward."

"Is she?"

"Yes, she pled insanity during her trial. I would've testified against her, but I couldn't because I did think she wasn't all there, even in fifth year. Horrible woman." Hermione scowls at the thought of Umbridge before brightening up. "Well, let's just hope McGonagal didn't hire another Umbridge. Not that I think she would. McGonagal _hated_ her."

They walk in silence for another two turns, but it's a more comfortable silence. It was like they had bonded through a shared hatred of Umbridge. Like they acknowledged that yes, even Malfoy and Granger, polar opposites in every way, had something in common.

* * *

**Reviews are appreciated. And thank you if you reviewed.**

**Thoughts on this new truce?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter**

Thank you if you reviewed. And thank you if you're still reading this story even after my sporadic updating. Unfortunately, summer has been hectic so far.

Without further ado, Chapter Five.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The Head Dorms are on the fifth floor, in the middle of the school. She thought it wise that the Founders had placed them there. After all, the Dorms couldn't show a particular bias towards any house, so having them in the dungeons or a tower would be out of the question. And the fifth floor is secluded enough, there being no classrooms on it, so they wouldn't have to deal with the first and second years zipping around the first three floors trying to navigate between classes and the Great Hall.

What the fifth floor does have is the library. Hermione adores being only a short walk from her haven.

There it is, the polished oak door with the plaque that read Head Dormitories in fancy script. She walks up to it reverently.

"Co-operation," she says clearly. The door glides left into the wall, like a sliding door, to reveal the cozy Head Common Room.

She eagerly walks through, pausing only to admire the leather sofas, the merry fire, and the two large oak desks that she thinks will be perfect for studying. She imagines the desk groaning with the weight of books from the library (a library that's only a turn, a secret passage way, and another turn away!), and herself perched on a chair behind it, scribbling away on a scroll of parchment.

"The colour tone. It's neutral," remarks Malfoy, who steps in after her. He makes sure that he's a few steps behind her at all times, so as not to crowd her, and for that she's grateful.

There's still something about his presence that makes her uneasy, even with the truce.

"Well, I for one like all the wood. Green and red only looks good during Christmas. Any other time and it's just… garish," she says.

"Hmm," Malfoy says noncommittally. He reaches into a side pocket of his robe, withdraws his trunk, and tosses it onto the low coffee table in the middle of the couches.

She copies his actions, but takes care to float it gently onto the table with her wand.

"The seventh floor?" asks Malfoy.

"The seventh floor," says Hermione. They depart in silence, both lost in thought.

* * *

His name is Burrington Oddment.

_Professor _Burrington Oddment.

Now, at one in the afternoon, Hermione is ensconced in the kitchens with Draco Malfoy and trying to force down a plate of lunch. She had asked Dobby for a plate of salad, knowing she wouldn't be able to stomach anything else, but she was having a hard time swallowing even salad.

"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable," she says, staring intently down at a splotch of white salad dressing on her baby greens.

"It's almost a tradition for our Defense professors to be raving lunatics by now, Granger," Malfoy says dryly.

"No wonder McGonagal needed us to help her. The nerve of that man!" continues Hermione, ignoring Malfoy's comment.

She stabs at her greens viciously, and wishes she had ordered a steak instead, because thunking a fork into soggy vegetables isn't as satisfying as piercing a thick slab of meat.

It had started off innocently enough. She had wandered the seventh floor with Malfoy for a few minutes, both of them experts on their surroundings considering the amount of time they had spent in the Room of Requirement previously. The corridors were deserted, and even though she had insisted they pause several times, they couldn't hear anything indicating their Defense professor was somewhere close by. Finally, they had stumbled upon a pair of feet encased in black leather gleaming at the end of a corridor.

The faint rumble of snores tickled their ears.

Looks were exchanged, of exasperation and irritation, and they quickened their steps towards the feet. They rounded the corner, carefully giving the feet a wide berth, and were greeted with the site of a rotund man in pressed black robes stretched out along the hard stone floor.

"Reckon he's been hit with a hex, Granger?" asked Malfoy.

She raised her wand and cast a quick _Ennervate_.

The man snorted loudly twice, licked his lips, and then proceeded to blink his beady eyes. He squinted against the light.

Hermione peered down at him curiously, while Malfoy gave a tiny huff in annoyance. She looked over at her partner, and caught the flash of thinly veiled anger in his eyes.

"Sir? Sir, are you alright?" she asked, deciding to ignore Malfoy.

Malfoy shifted his weight impatiently.

"Hmm, what's that? Oh, you'd be the Head Girl, eh?" The man gave a loud yawn, exposing large teeth under thick lips.

"Yes, I'm the Head Girl, Hermione Granger. And this is my partner, Head Boy Draco Malfoy," Hermione said.

"Pleasure, Miss Granger, pleasure." The man rolled his short, thick neck until he was on his side, his jaw slacked, and his eyes closed.

Malfoy turned in time to catch the thinly veiled flash of anger in Hermione's eyes.

"Sir, are you the new Defense professor?" she asked loudly. Her wand arm twitched.

He gave another loud snort before cracking one eye open. "Miss Granger, was it? After hours of back breaking labour, a man needs his rest. Go bother someone else, or I'll be deducting points."

The man then proceeded to roll onto his other side, and after a few seconds of Hermione's tangible fury, had the audacity to start snoring.

Just as she was about to open her mouth and shout loudly, Malfoy tapped her once on the shoulder.

"What?" she hissed, spinning around.

"Careful, Granger. Don't want to be yelling at professors on our first day now, do we?"

It was the smirk, that damnable smirk. Suddenly she was transported back to fifth year, fourth year, third year, second year, first year, when Malfoy was the annoying git that smirked and smirked and spewed insults and

"Let's go find McGonagal, although I suspect she already knows about this… this… pathetic waste of space's behaviour. After that, what do you say to lunch?" Malfoy asked.

So that was how Hermione Granger found herself sitting on a bench opposite Draco Malfoy, stewing over her baby greens.

"I have half a mind to excuse myself from school. To think, that my tuition fees will go towards lining that… thing's pocket!"

"Granger, your voice has reached an octave not yet audible by human ears. Congratulations."

Hermione stops stabbing her greens and stares intently at Malfoy instead.

"He threatened to take points. Points! While _he_ was snoring in the hallways. That's a violation of at least a dozen school rules!"

"He is also a Professor last I checked."

"Just because McGonagal was desperate and no one else wanted the job-"

"If you want to survive this last year, I suggest you resist from antagonizing him."

"So you want me to kiss his arse like you did Umbridge's?"

Silence.

"_She_ is currently the long term patient at the Janus Thickey Ward, not me." Malfoy's voice is low, and Hermione catches a current of anger in his words.

"I think I'll leave the arse kissing to you, Malfoy. Merlin knows you've had enough practice at it."

With those last words, she clambers over the bench and heads for the kitchen door.

"What of our truce, Granger?"

"It's over."

* * *

**Reviews are appreciated.**

**Thoughts on the volatile truce?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter**

**Apologies. Really, it's been a while. To make up for it, here's a long chapter.**

**Thank you if you reviewed. You know who you are.**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

She regrets it the moment she steps out of the portrait hole.

Her feet move left right left until she can't take it anymore and leans against the stone wall on her right. Knees buckle slowly, until her body slides down the wall with a painful scraping against her clothes.

What just happened?

Why did those words spill out so hastily?

It was hard, wading through the murky mire of confusion clouding her mind. Thoughts zip to and fro, trying to connect with other thoughts, but nothing is working right today. Nothing is linking and forming logical, step by step explanations as to why she, Hermione Granger, had just carelessly broken a truce with Draco Malfoy.

"Umbridge," she speaks out loud into the dusty corridor.

There's a slight echo of her voice.

She hates Umbridge. Hates hates hates that woman, the very first teacher she has ever hated like this, with the passion of a thousand molten lava pools. Wanted to scratch out the eyes of that toad, wanted to force the foul creature to write _I must not tell lies_ with her own crude instrument of torture. Quills were not made to be debased in that manner. How dare she!

And Malfoy, the pointy faced brat, with that gleaming I on his robes that caused him to strut around with an even greater sense of entitlement, although how that was possible Hermione didn't know, because Malfoy was born with a big head, he was born arrogant and cruel and vile and oh how Hermione hates him!

That's it.

A eureka moment bathes Hermione in a harsh, piercing light that robs her of all defenses, and flays her bare for the world to peer and prod at.

She hates Malfoy.

She still hates Malfoy.

That's why she was so eager to break off the truce. She doesn't like her partner. Actually, doesn't like is a mild way of putting it.

There's a mistrust and violent anger that cloaks Malfoy in her mind, befuddling her senses and causing her to act irrationally. The jeers, the taunts, the bandying around of that despicable word, had left scars on Hermione. Every time she sees him, the scars reopen.

To protect herself. She knows Malfoy will break the truce, so she does it first.

A pre-emptive strike.

She has a commitment problem in her hands.

* * *

It's a long walk back to the portrait. She stares at the basket of pears with a sense of impending doom before a hand slowly, slowly raises. Fingers tense in anticipation, but a breathe whooshes out and her arm falls limply back to her side.

"You can do it," she whispers.

She's a Gryffindor. She's brave, and courageous, and she is _not_ a coward. She is not a snivelling little coward.

A nod, decisive this time, and fingers move nimbly as they tickle pears.

The portrait swings open slowly, but much too fast for Hermione, and she stands tall and proud ready to do battle…

Only to find Malfoy reading the Daily Prophet with a carton of ice cream (who would have thought Malfoy of all people enjoyed strawberry ice cream!) and the handle of a spoon sticking out of his lips.

Shock. It's such a normal scene. Such an – an anticlimactic scene.

Surprise. She's not equipped to deal with this. She can't handle this Malfoy, this utterly normal, sane Malfoy.

If she hadn't spent the last six years with Draco Malfoy, she would have thought the boy reclining casually on the bench in the kitchen an angel. An intelligent, adorable angel. The way the kitchen lights shine on his hair _just so_, making the white blond seem positively ethereal, and Malfoy is eating strawberry ice cream? Yes, it's strawberry, he's just taken that spoon out of his mouth and dipped it into the carton and raised a shining pink blob back to his mouth–

A tongue darts out and licks the melting ice cream.

She's had enough. She thinks, no she knows that Malfoy is aware of her presence. But she clears her throat anyways, and watches as Malfoy slowly turns to regard her. He plops the spoon into the carton and lowers the half raised newspaper.

"Anything interesting?" she asks, because she's curious as to what the paper has to say, but mostly because her brain is completely petrified and she can't think of something fabulously witty, or really anything coherent at all.

"No."

His reply is terse, clipped, and a slight scowl mars his features. There's annoyance in the tightness of his forehead, as if her presence is unwanted.

She almost, _almost_, whirls around to walk away again.

But she knows she can't, and the gleaming badge on his chest and the one she can't see but knows is there on her chest reminds her why.

So she opens her mouth, and closes it, and opens it, and all the while he regards her as if she is some exotic creature newly discovered from the depths of Antarctica.

"I'm sorry," she finally forces out. "I apologize for the way I handled our discussion about Professor Oddment."

"Apology accepted."

He returns to his newspaper.

She warily, cautiously, creeps across the kitchen and carefully lowers herself onto the bench opposite him.

Her throat is stuck, there's something lodged in it, and she's so aware of him now, the him in front of her, not the malicious Malfoy of her mind, not the little boy who called her a _Mudblood_, and so she watches him. She sees pale, slender fingers caress a silver spoon to scoops up glistening pink ice cream to a waiting red tongue.

A small boy, with fair white blond hair, orders a bedraggled Dobby to bring up a bowl of strawberry ice cream. Upon receiving his treat, he grins in anticipation, and almost thanks the lowly creature in the sodden pillowcase.

At least, that's what Hermione thinks of Malfoy, now that she's starting to see him.

"Anything interesting?"

He's returning her own words back to her. Except she was struggling to be calm when she delivered them, and he doesn't have to struggle because he's calm right now.

She's not calm right now. Her hands are twisting nervously, her right foot is fidgeting slightly, and her back is ramrod straight. It's a defense mechanism. She always has perfect posture whenever she's nervous.

"I didn't know you like strawberry ice cream." She blurts it out because her brain to mouth thing isn't there and all of those random thoughts that are filling her head are trying to rush out, like a huge flood of water roaring through a crack in a dam.

Funny. All of those thoughts are about _him_.

There's silence for a short beat, and he smiles slightly. It's different from his smirk, his godawful smirk. His smile… makes him look like… like a person. Just another person. Not a bully, not someone who incenses her veins to the point where she wants to Smack. Him. When he smiles, he's…

Breathtaking.

So now besides her twisting hands and fidgeting foot and the sweat she's sure is marring her forehead, she also has to worry about her malfunctioning lungs.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Granger."

And with a start, she realized that he's right.

For all that they've known each other since they were eleven, they really don't know much about each other.

He's Draco Malfoy. He's Head Boy, a seventh year Slytherin. He's a Death Eater.

There's a blinking cursor after that last word in Hermione's mind, because there's nothing else she can add after it.

Then she remembers.

He likes strawberry ice cream.

The thought that she knows something about him now, something about Draco Malfoy that not many people do, fills her with a bubble of giddy laughter.

The bubble pops when she remembers exactly what she did, the position she's in, and why she's so nervous.

"Look. Malfoy. I– ," she trails off and stares at the patterns on the oak table.

"You've apologized already," he says. It's not business like, or brisk, or polite, or cold. It's gentle. He's saying it like he'd say, it's okay. He's saying it like he understands.

"It was mean. And spiteful. I was childish to go storming off, and he's not worth it, he's not worth breaking our truce over. But really the truce wasn't broken because of him, he was just the catalyst, the truce was broken because I was pig headed and arrogant.

"I'm sorry."

The torrent of words pouring from her mouth stops, and then there's blessed silence.

Her last two words, her entirely apology, hangs like a cloud heavy with rain in the air.

"Apology accepted."

She's surprised that he understood enough of her word-vomit to get that she was apologizing for her actions. Maybe the 'I'm sorry' at the end clued him in. Usually, if it was Harry and Ron they'd be staring at her with a blank look on their face.

The silence between her and Malfoy isn't comfortable. She doesn't know whether it ever will be comfortable. To stop her body from leaping out of her skin and making a mad dash for the portrait door, she searches for something, anything to say.

She settles on, "Thank you," because it's polite and because she really does mean it.

He turns back to his newspaper. The pages rustle a bit, and then he says, "Who do you think they'll get to be Minister of Magic?"

A sigh threatens to escape from her throat as she sags in relief now that the tense atmosphere has been blown away by calmer winds.

"I don't know. I pity whoever's chosen though."

"It better not be Fudge."

She laughs. "Harry wouldn't let them choose Fudge."

He looks at her from over the top of his newspaper. She likes that newspaper. It's a flimsy barrier between the two of them, but a barrier nonetheless.

"Speaking of Potter, will I be seeing him in two weeks?"

Her smile freezes.

There's a lie on the tip of her tongue. It would be so easy to say something vague, or something affirmative. Instead, the truth slithers out.

"I… don't know."

It's a broken truth, raw and full of pain, and Hermione frantically tries to stuff it back inside of her, but it's too late now that it's out there, exposed to _his_ view and scrutiny.

She remembers that last night. That last night was what made up her mind. Seeing them there, in a circle by the fire, no one saying much, everyone just existing together. They were grateful to be there with each other, with others that shared their blood and their pain. She was the outsider, the one looking in, and suddenly an acute stab of longing for her own family, the blood of her blood, made her stand up. She couldn't take it anymore.

So she fled to Australia.

And now she doesn't know what her friends think of her. She spent so much of the August back in England trying to do anything _but_ think, and now all she has left are her thoughts.

Do they hate her?

Do they think her a coward?

Will they understand?

A brief rustle of crinkling papers jerks her out of her thoughts. Malfoy's head is hidden behind a large image of Kingsley Shacklebolt calling for order in front of the Wizengamot.

Suddenly, she's filled with this urge to know more about the current state of England. She fought a war for this new world, lost her family so that others might live to see a new dawn, and she'd be damned if this world will end up like the last one.

"Tell me, Malfoy, what's going on in the Ministry of Magic right now?"

The paper slowly lowers until arctic grey eyes scan hers. Long, manicured fingers elegantly place the paper on the long oak table before lacing together.

"Well, it's a mess right now, but then again, that's to be expected. They're trying to find people to fill the holes Voldemort made in the upper echelons of the Departments. The first order of business is to appoint a Minister of Magic, of course, but after that –…"

* * *

**Reviews are pondered and thoughts are taken into account when I craft the next chapter.**

**What are your feelings on my characterization of Hermione and Malfoy? **


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter.**

**I should probably mention this story isn't betad. Therefore, any spelling/grammar errors are my fault entirely, and I apologize profusely. Please don't throw stones at me.**

**Thank you if you reviewed. This one's for you.**

* * *

Chapter Seven

It's the next day, and she wakes up again to the beeping of her alarm. Except today there's no whoosh of cars, no rumbling of motors outside her window. In fact, there isn't a window in her room, which she found alarming at first, but the fake window that projected an image of the Hogwarts grounds abated the creeping feelings of claustrophobia.

She lies there on the soft downy mattress, listening to the hypnotic beep beep beep and stretches her fingers and toes. Her hair is a mess on her pillow, her back is sticky with sweat, her duvet is pooled around her waist, and she feels blissfully comfortable.

A rising sense of optimism exudes from the calm that is her mind. For once, thoughts aren't clamouring for attention, worries aren't making her look older than she should, and fear doesn't haunt her every step.

It's nice, she finds, to just lie down and look at the ceiling and _be_.

Three polite knocks on her door.

"Granger, there's a note from McGonagal."

To her surprise and relief, the sound of Malfoy's baritone doesn't immediately cause a clawing hatred to burn her stomach. Instead, she feels… nothing.

So she says, "I'm coming!" and sits up with a smile on her face.

It takes her five minutes before she's done with the bathroom.

As she descends the mahogany staircase that curves down to their common room, she sees Malfoy reclining like a king on an armchair sipping a cup of coffee. Considering their room doesn't have a private kitchen bar, no matter the rumours insisting it does, she suspects foul play (or house elves) had been involved in procuring Malfoy's morning coffee.

To her surprise, there's an identical steaming mug on the low glass pane coffee table.

She sinks down onto the armchair next to Malfoy's and gratefully leans forward to snag the handle of her treat.

"Good morning Malfoy, and thank you," she says after a sip. To her surprise, the coffee is exactly as she likes it.

Reading the surprise written on her face, Malfoy replies, "I asked the elf to make it the way you normally take it."

For a few blessed seconds, Hermione sips her coffee and tries to wake up, content to be cocooned in the haze clouding her mind. Malfoy, on the other hand, is a bit impatient, for as soon as she sets her mug back onto the coffee table, a piece of paper is shoved at her.

"What is it?" she asks, confused.

Malfoy arches an elegant eyebrow. "The note from McGonagal."

Her eyes widen. "Oh!" Through the rush of her morning routine and the bliss of her coffee, she had completely forgotten the reason Malfoy knocked on her door. She takes it eagerly, eyes quickly scanning the Headmistress' sharp, precise cursive.

_Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy:_

_I trust you are both well situated in your rooms. Please meet me at my office after breakfast to discuss your duties during your two weeks here._

_The password is Pax Brittanica._

_Minerva McGonagal_

_Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

She looks up to find Malfoy staring at her. He seems to be… studying her. His eyes boring holes into hers, that blond hair, now no longer slicked back into a helmet, falling softly into his face, his face no longer marred by a perpetual scowl or an anxious twitch.

That's the moment she realizes Draco Malfoy has grey eyes.

"D'you think McGonagal will kick Oddment out? I think half the school would fail their exams if he's allowed to stay on."

"Don't be silly, Granger. We've survived Voldemort sticking out the back of Quirrell, that fool Lockhart, Moody," here he winces briefly before continuing on, "Umbitch, and _Snape_. Oddment is going to be a walk in the park after that."

Thinking back to the eclectic mix of Defense professors that had previously graced the school, she realizes he's right.

"We've all seen… done things now. Defense is going to be a joke after we just fought a bloody _war_." His voice is low, rough, his eyes trained on his hands.

She realizes she's seeing a part of him not many people do, and to add to all the eye-openers she's received about him, she realizes he's right again, damn him. It was strange, what with Malfoy being the voice of reason and her being a neurotic mess. Not that she hasn't always been a neurotic mess, but _Malfoy_ being the truth?

It's her turn to say something now, and she doesn't know what to say, so she does her failsafe around Malfoy and blurts out the things running through her mind.

"I never thought of it that way," she says at last. "I never thought of the war and its effects… I've spent the entire summer just… running away from it all."

She doesn't mention the shame she feels eating up her insides. She, Hermione Granger, did the first irresponsible thing in her life. She _ran away_. And now Malfoy knows.

Maybe she should have checked out the Five Stages of Grief.

"Hey."

His voice persuades her to look up from her twisting fingers.

He coughs, turns away, but looks up with those grey eyes. "It's okay."

For some odd reason, his awkward, embarrassed words cause her heavy heart to feel bloated with helium.

"How'd you do it?" she blurts out. If they were having a heart to heart right now, then she's going to ask all her questions.

There's something about Malfoy that strips her layers and makes her feel comfortable in all her twisted ugliness and despair.

"Do what?"

"_This_," she says, waving her hands at him. At his frown and tilted head, she sighs in exasperation. "You know, get all your shit together. Feel at… at peace."

"I haven't. And I'm not."

Now it's her turn to frown.

"I haven't got all my shit together. And I'm not… not at peace."

There seems to be something else he wants to say, for his sentence ended abruptly, but he shuts his mouth and nothing else is forthcoming.

"But you… you seem to be, well, you've accepted the fact that there was a war. And you've worked through the effects it's has on you. And you're looking ahead, aren't you, to the future?"

He surveys her carefully. "You've got a logical mind, Granger, and while I have to be logical as a Slytherin, I don't compartmentalize quite to the extent you do."

"So that's the secret? To not be logical, not to… compartmentalize?"

"Well, no. You see, it's different for everyone, isn't it? What works for me won't necessarily do the trick for you."

"Leave whether it works for me to decide. _What did you do_?"

"I didn't run away."

And it hurts.

He stops, as if seeing she's wounded, that her arteries are bleeding profusely all over the leather armchair.

But he continues.

"While you were tenting with Potter in a goose chase scavenger hunt, I was stuck in the Manor having dinner with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

The thought threatens hysterics, but Hermione tampers it down.

"I _couldn't_ run away. It was everywhere, permeating through every brick, every wall of the Manor. It saturated my home. So all I could do was recuperate. And think. About everything. For what seemed like the first time, I was observing everything through my own eyes, thinking about what exactly was happening with my own mind."

The entire year was a year of fear, of seeing shadows around every corner, of thinking oh-shit-the-snatchers, and wondering whether they would ever get out alive. But no students were tortured one after another in front of them. They didn't have to live with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The worst parts of the war had been hidden from them, except for those brief periods of time when they had to venture out to retrieve the Horcruxes as efficiently as possible.

"But I was in a tent, in a forest with my two best friends. So I didn't see first-hand some of the stuff you did. Or Ginny did. Or Neville."

He nods reluctantly.

Except.

Except the Manor.

And several hours at the Manor was enough to fill her with a lifetime of horrors.

She looks at Malfoy, and realizes he spent an entire year in that place.

"What do I do? How can I get better?"

He sighs. "That's not a question for me to answer, Granger. I'm not a Mind Healer. You need to think about the war, allow yourself to revisit your deepest, darkest memories, and accept the changes they have wrought in you. Or, if you don't like who you see in the mirror, change yourself now."

"I think you did a smashing job of answering my question. Have you looked into becoming a Mind Healer?"

He shoots her a look, as if to say very-funny,-Granger.

"How did you know all that about me?" She realizes that may not have been the best way to ask her question, because he's shot her another look, so she rephrases. "How did you know enough to help me?"

"Your part in the War wasn't exactly a secret, Granger."

"Well, yes," she says, waving her hands impatiently. "Everyone knows that. But how did… how did you read me so well, know what was going on in my mind?"

He pauses, and considers her. Again.

"I tried to think in your shoes. There's this saying I heard somewhere, and it stuck with me. Don't judge a person until you've walked a moon in his shoes."

Malfoy. Advocating not judging other people.

She supposes the Earth is now flat as well, and Voldemort's about to pop out from around the corner skipping in a tutu with a basket full of posies.

"There's something I've been meaning to say to you. I swore to myself I'd do it, especially to you. I apologize for calling you a mudblood all these years."

It's so sudden, so unexpected, that all Hermione can do is gape at him. Then, his words sink in, and she knows that a year or two ago, she would have smirked victoriously and felt vindicated. Of course, her fantasies usually involved him grovelling at her feet while saying those words, but any apology would have sent her into overdrive.

Now, she looks into his eyes and her mouth closes to form a smile.

"Thank you."

And she feels peace.

* * *

**Reviews are appreciated.**

**Thoughts about this chapter, disagreements with how early the heavy stuff has come out, my characterizations etc. are welcome. **


End file.
